How Draco Malfoy Learned to Fall in Love
by RoastedGrover
Summary: An unfortunate locker room mishap provokes something greater than either Harry or Draco could ever have imagined. HPDM slash. WIP.
1. Moonlight

**Author's Note:** For once in my life, I have very little to say, other than I hope you enjoy this story. I expect it will be approximately five chapters long, but we'll see, shall we? :) Of course, I don't own and don't pretend to own anything related to Harry Potter (with the exception of the poster that is currently affixed to the ceiling above my bed) and am doing this purely for my own (and hopefully your) entertainment, making no money from it. Without any further ado...

_**How Draco Malfoy Learned to Fall in Love**_

_Chapter One: __Moonlight_

Sometimes, though he'd never admit it to anyone even under pain of death, Draco Malfoy liked the feeling frustration brought him.

He liked the feeling of not remembering the incantation to turn a tortoise into a pillow. He liked it when he caught a glimpse of the Snitch during Quidditch practice, only to have it disappear from right under him, not to resurface again for another hour – if at all. He liked it when Granger had checked out all the books that he needed for a Potions assignment before he could get to them. He even liked it when Crabbe and Goyle proved too imbecilic to grasp even the simplest of concepts explained in the most basic of terms. Frustration made him angry. Anger made him passionate. And passion brought him success.

For Draco Malfoy, life had always been this way. Certainly at home, when he was ruled by his father, success was imperative. Being successful, being the best was the only way he could prove to his father that he was good enough and worthy of love, praise, affection.

But there was one kind of frustration that Draco Malfoy liked even more than the others, although this one had nothing to do with success, nor with his father's approval. It was the kind of frustration that only Draco knew he was experiencing, and the kind that only he could resolve. The kind of frustration that would lead to mortification if anyone ever found out he actually _enjoyed_. Draco Malfoy had a secret.

His secret was this: early in the mornings, before the sunlight started to creep into the Greenhouses and seep through the windowpanes of the Great Hall, before even the earliest of risers moved in their beds, before the house-elves themselves had started to prepare breakfast, Draco Malfoy was wide awake, and very alert. He would silently swing his feet to the floor on the side of his bed, into his slippers, and sneak out of the dormitory. He'd stealthily make his way to the bathroom, where things would start to get interesting. In the privacy of the bathroom he'd torture himself to the edge of pleasurable oblivion with his hands, cramming one fist in his mouth to keep his gasps and grunts silent. His mind would race, imagining that it wasn't his own hand driving him ever-closer to bliss. Someone else's mouth. Really, he was a teenaged boy…what else was to be expected of him? But where Draco differed from other teenaged boys was in where he stopped. While others would keep going in a wild frenzy until their bodies exploded with satisfaction, Draco would stop just on the edge, deliciously, _painfully_ close to ecstasy, knowing that one more stroke would finish him off. Then he'd spend the rest of the day in a state of agitation that would only be relieved late that night. Yes, Draco loved being frustrated.

This particular January morning would be no different. Today, he would fantasise about his lover's lips and tongue and hands. He had never really paid much attention to the person's face or any defining features; he only knew that his lover was not a girl. He had known this for years and had come to terms with it. What had troubled him about the last few weeks was the identity of his lover. Because no longer were the hands disembodied and the lips anonymous. No longer was the hair he ruffled of an unidentifiable colour.

He had started to fantasise about Harry Potter, the boy with the lightning scar, and for the son of Voldemort's right-hand man, almost nothing could be worse. It was about as forbidden an attraction as one could have. And if Draco was honest with himself, he had to admit that having an identity to insert into his fantasy made it more intense. Certainly it was much more difficult to stop at that perfect spot in his frenzied wanking, the spot where he was so close to orgasm the thought of stopping seemed outrageous. Yet he always managed to hold off. Then he would spend the rest of the day in a state of arousal and frustration, barely able to concentrate on anything except the aching in his loins. He loved the agitation. And today he would frustrate himself to no end.

Per his usual routine, Draco stealthily made his way to the Slytherin bathroom, his slippered feet making no noise on the smooth slate floor. As he slid into the tiled room, he could feel his body responding in anticipation of what was about to come. Eagerly, he rid himself of his pyjama bottoms, casting them aside, and flung his top off to join the bottoms in a location that was not of immediate importance to Draco. Good. Now he was completely naked; that's how he liked it best. He liked the feel of the cold tile on his back as he leaned up against the wall and seized his half-hard member. There were some days when he would work himself up a little before, but today was not one of them. Today, Draco was hot and horny and eager. Forgoing any charade of foreplay with his own body, he grasped his manhood and started to move. Up, down, up, down, up, down. The rhythm of delight. Draco imagined clutching Potter's delicious arse as he pounded him against the wall. He pictured the look of elation on Potter's face as he brought him to orgasm. He pretended it was Potter's muscles clenching around his cock instead of his own hand. Faster, faster, up, down. He was so close, he could feel it. Just when he knew that it would take only one more stroke to finish him off, he released his throbbing member and scrambled to stabilise himself, clutching at the wall behind him.

_Perfect_, he thought. _Mission accomplished_. Free to spend the rest of the day in a state of uncomfortable frustration, he retrieved his pyjamas and redressed himself. Making his way silently back to his bedroom so he could pretend that he'd been there all along when the others woke, Draco anticipated that evening, when he'd be able to finish what he started, powerfully, forcefully, and vigourously, and he licked his lips in eagerness.

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Elsewhere in the castle, Harry woke up. He had woken up early almost every day since returning to Hogwarts after the Christmas holiday nearly a month ago. It wasn't intentional, but he really didn't mind. He liked being awake when nobody else was. He liked being aware. Sleep was vulnerability. Sleep was ignorance. To be asleep was to be weak, especially in the dark days upon them.

This morning, the sky was still dark. Harry opened his eyes to find a beam of moonlight streaming through his window, perforated by the shadows of falling flakes of snow. He took a moment to marvel at what a rare beauty laid before his eyes. Never in Scotland did snow and moon coincide; always the moon was shrouded by dreary gray clouds when the soft white flecks drifted down to the castle. And when the clouds dissipated to reveal the moon, the sky was usually clear and there was not a snowflake in sight.

Harry took in this small pleasure, shifting onto his side and donning his glasses so he could stare out at the masterpiece before him. As he moved, he felt the familiar hardness between his legs that had accompanied his awakening nearly every morning since he was thirteen years old. It could wait, he thought. For now he just wanted to gaze at the snow falling in the silver moonlight.

He'd always loved the moon. It was faithful and familiar, always going in the same pattern, waxing and waning like clockwork, disappearing for one or two nights but always coming back like it had done so many times before. On the nights back at Number Four, Privet Drive, when the Dursleys would lock him out for the day and 'forget' to let him back in at night, he would lie in Aunt Petunia's petunias and stare up at the moon, pretending that his parents could see it too. But that was something he'd never admit, not even to Ron or Hermione. That was something that was deeper, more personal even than what he saw in the Mirror of Erised in his first year. Harry doubted that the Cruciatas Curse could wrench that truth from his lips.

But he was torn from his wonderment and pondering by the situation between his legs, which was getting harder to ignore. Sighing, he rolled onto his back and removed his glasses. He enjoyed having an orgasm as much as the next bloke, but truthfully he found masturbating to be a little bit of an inconvenience. Still, stopping the habit seemed to be impossible, if the erection he was currently sporting was any indication. His body apparently needed the release, even if his mind didn't.

It wasn't so much the physical act of masturbation that Harry minded, but rather it was the mental aspect. His fantasies had become increasingly dissatisfying. The thought of making love to a woman, making her writhe underneath him when the pleasure became unbearable, coming inside her…it merely wasn't good enough. The alternative, however, was unacceptable. Life with Uncle Vernon had taught Harry that being a pouf – as Uncle Vernon called it – would be rewarded with some punishment tantamount to the death sentence in the Dursley household. So he had never allowed himself to wank to images involving his own gender, even since escaping to Hogwarts. It had not been easy, though. More than once in the heat of the moment had his mind wandered into illicit territory, and he'd had to stop himself, painfully close to orgasm, until he could regain control and finish with only Approved Flesh in his mind's eye. This morning, once again, he would have to push away any taboo thoughts and bring himself to a most frustrating – but acceptable – orgasm. He shut the curtains around his bed and cast a quick Silencing Charm so he wouldn't betray himself to the others. It would at least bring him relief, if it could not bring him ecstasy, thought Harry, and slid a hand under the waistband of his boxers.

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After returning to the dormitory from his early-morning excursion, Draco lay in bed and stared at the ceiling until he heard Goyle moving in the bed to his right. He rolled his eyes when he realised exactly _why_ Goyle was stirring, and he wondered briefly why he was friends with an oaf who was such an imbecile he couldn't remember to Silence his bed when he wanked in the dorm. Coughing pointedly to remind Goyle that he was not alone, Draco got out of bed when he heard the clock in the common room chime seven. One thing Draco liked about winter was how dark it was when he woke up. It made him feel as though he'd gotten a head start on the day by beating the sun to productivity.

Draco fished out his robe from inside his trunk and dressed himself, glad that his roommates – with the exception of Goyle, who was preoccupied in his own right – were still asleep so they could not notice his current state. Until he had started experimenting with agitation, Draco had never fully appreciated the looseness of the Hogwarts robes. They easily hid his arousal, which came and went at the drop of a hat throughout days like today. When he was standing, the robes flowed enough so that it was a nonissue, and when seated, he only had to drape his robes about him strategically and nobody would be the wiser. It was perfect, really.

Draco made his way into the Great Hall like a housecat, moving silently, confidently, alertly, and predatorily.

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It is the very act of actively trying _not_ to think about something that pushes that something to the forefront of one's mind. Invariably, if someone says, 'Don't think of Hippogriffs,' then the first thing that pops into one's head is an image of a Hippogriff. Saying 'Whatever you do, don't smile,' will result in an uncontrollable grin, possibly accompanied with a giggle. And apparently, actively _not_ thinking about men when you wanked only worked for so long before you accidentally let one image slip into your fantasy. And furthermore, it was now apparent to Harry that that one image could be enough to send you over the edge.

'Bugger. Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger. Shit,' Harry muttered, eyes wide in disbelief. 'What are you, twelve?' Though nobody had witnessed what had just happened, Harry was embarrassed beyond measure. He had come in three minutes. He wasn't sure what was worse: the fact that he'd finished in less time than most blokes could even establish a good rhythm, or the fact that he'd finished because one stupid idea penetrated the wall he had established long ago to ward off such thoughts. He realised it was probably both.

All it had taken was imagining firm, toned flesh against his own instead of the supple softness he knew he was supposed to feel. Imagining broad shoulders and big hands, not the dainty gentleness that females could offer him. But the worst picture was the one of Harry's cock being held in hands that were not his own; another man touching the place where only Harry himself had ever touched before.

And to make matters just that much worse, it was one of the best orgasms – if not _the_ best orgasm – he'd ever had. Three minutes with a woman, ten seconds with a man. And it was incredible.

Harry tried as hard as he could to push the thoughts away but they kept resurfacing. He could not deny what had just happened, and worse, he almost didn't want to. Rolling over onto his side and hugging his knees to his chest, he felt shameful tears escape his eyes and did his best to keep his sobs to himself.

**Author's Note:** Please be so kind as to review if you liked it, or even if you didn't like it very much. Especially if you didn't like it very much. Tell me how it could be better! :)


	2. Please Leave Now

**Author's Note:** Thank you for the reviews and story alert additions I got for the last chapter, they are much appreciated! I now present you with Chapter Two. Also, I realised only _after_ I posted the last chapter that in my supreme ignorance, I spelled 'Cruciatus' incorrectly. Terribly sorry about that, but honestly I can't be bothered to go fix one letter. Chances are, the lot of you didn't even notice, but now are going back to check! Ha! Oh well. This chapter's a little shorter than the last, but the next one should be a bit longer. Of course, I don't own Harry Potter or anything related to it (much to my dismay), but would under no circumstances turn down tea with JKR or Alan Rickman. Enjoy!

_Chapter Two: Please Leave Now_

It was a most curious phenomenon, what happened to Draco on days like today. It seemed that his libido functioned entirely of its own accord, not influenced in the slightest by external events. This is to say, basically, that he was hot and bothered all day, and nothing could ease Draco's discomfort.

In Potions class, Snape seemed to have a vendetta against Harry. Of course, this was nothing new, and everybody in the class knew it. Intent on ensuring that Harry enjoyed not a single minute of Potions, he had partnered Draco with the sodding Boy Who Lived. While Snape knew Draco didn't particularly enjoy that arrangement, he knew that Draco would tolerate it because Snape regularly favoured him. What Snape _didn't_ know, however, was that today was possibly the very worst day he could pair the two together.

As Snape announced the groups, Draco groaned. He couldn't be with Potter, not today. He couldn't sit next to the star performer of his morning time fantasies, especially not in his current state. Potter may be preoccupied with saving them all from the most powerful Dark wizard of all time, but he was not a fool and he was not oblivious. He would notice something was wrong with Draco. _And worse_, thought Draco, _he can read minds_, and a horrified expression crossed his usually sneer-adorned face.

Fortunately for Draco, Potter seemed no more thrilled about the situation than he did. Grumbling, he picked up his textbook, cauldron, and kit, and moved over to the seat next to Draco that moments earlier had been occupied by Blaise Zabini.

Though Draco had known that Potter's proximity would have an effect on him, he couldn't have prepared himself for exactly _what_ effect that would be. The instant Potter sat down, Draco was hard. This was an extremely annoying state to be in, seeing as he had only just moments before coming into the dungeon managed to make his erection go away.

Looking down at the instructions for the potion they were to brew, Harry now realised why there was a tank with a small green and brown snake in front of them. They needed the venom. Harry opened his kit and removed the vial they were to use to milk the small snake. He looked at Draco. 'Do you want to milk it or shall I?' he asked.

'You're the Parselmouth,' Draco pointed out, unwilling to admit even to himself that those nine words Potter had just uttered shot straight to his groin.

Harry shrugged in what may have been agreement, indifference, or defeat, and removed the lid from the tank. He said to the snake, '_Hello there. My name is Harry. What's yours?_'

'_My name is Tanis_,' she replied, obviously surprised that the boy with black hair could communicate with her.

'_Nice to meet you, Tanis_.'

Draco was trying very hard to ignore the fact that the words being spoken in Parseltongue felt like they were wrapping themselves around him like tiny tendrils and making him wish desperately that he could come. It was very possibly the hottest thing he had ever experienced.

As Harry proceeded to ask Tanis if he could milk her (to which she obviously acquiesced) and then explain what they were going to use the venom for, it was all Draco could do not to come in his trousers.

It was a very long Potions class.

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Peeves had a gift. Having arrived at Hogwarts over twenty years ago, he'd seen his fair share of mischief – and caused even more of it. Realising it had been almost a quarter hour since his last chaotic disruption to the functioning of Hogwarts, he decided it was time for a new trick.

As he navigated the corridors of the great castle, he wondered what to do. As he passed the Quidditch locker rooms, he had a brilliant idea. With glee, he wrenched the plaques off the doors in the corridor and affixed them each in the other's place. There were only two rooms anyway. The House names changed with every game and every practise. So nobody would notice anything amiss. He stepped back and admired his work. Perhaps not the most troublesome, mayhem-focussed prank, but he was fairly certain it would have good results for whoever was involved.

You see, he'd left the plaques on the Quidditch pitch end of the locker rooms in their right places, meaning that while the Gryffindors would be in the right locker room, the Slytherins would not. The diabolical noise that erupted from Peeves was something only he could master.

Peeves sauntered down the corridor, wondering what his next scheme should be. Filch had had it far too easy the past few days…maybe it was time to release a few Wild Sneezlebees in his office.

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Sometimes – like right now – Draco couldn't believe what an idiot he could be. How could he have forgotten about Quidditch practice? On normal days, working himself up in the mornings only to hold off until later was fine. But playing Quidditch in his current state was just downright painful, and not in a good way, so he needed to end his predicament immediately.

That set of circumstances was what drove Draco to his current actions. He couldn't believe what he was about to do, but he really had no other option. He didn't have enough time to make it to the Slytherin dormitory before practice started. Glancing down the corridor to ensure that nobody had followed him, he slipped noiselessly into the Slytherin locker room. No sooner had he rounded the corner than he caught sight of a very naked, very wet, very sudsy – and, if Draco were honest with himself, very hot – Harry Potter, who had evidently just finished Quidditch practice, taking a shower.

'Potter!' Malfoy shouted. 'What are you doing in here?'

Harry wheeled around, his hands flying to his crotch in an attempt to preserve his dignity. 'Malfoy!' he cried angrily. 'I could ask you the same question! This is the _Gryffindor_ locker room. Unlike you, I'm actually _allowed_ to be in here.' His face was red, Draco noted, probably a result of the combination of the heat of the water, embarrassment, and anger. Draco found Harry's rage almost comical, the menacing look on his face diminished by his attempt to cover himself up. He was hardly threatening when he was so exposed.

'What do you mean, this is the Gryffindor locker room? It's clearly the Slytherin locker room, it says on the door. _You're_ the one who shouldn't be here,' Draco sneered.

Meanwhile, Peeves was hovering outside in the corridor, eavesdropping on the whole interchange. Satisfied now that he could fool with them – or at least the Malfoy prat – a little more, he returned the plaques to their rightful doors.

Malfoy was being infuriating. 'What do you think I mean? It's a room full of lockers that only the Gryffindors use.' Seeing Malfoy's skepticism, he sighed, 'Look at the door,' exasperated, pointing in the direction of the Quidditch pitch door.

Suddenly doubting his certainty in light of Harry's confidence, Draco hesitantly retreated back to the corridor side door, opening it and peering at the plaque, which, to Draco's, chagrin, now proclaimed quite clearly the word _Gryffindor_.

Draco glanced back at Harry, and for once in his life, was at a loss for words. 'Oh, er…right. See you around.' He spun on his heel and left, puzzled. As he let the door fall shut behind him, he couldn't help but glance back to make sure that it said _Gryffindor_ on it. It did.

Draco walked further down the corridor to where the Slytherin locker room was, still not quite sure how he'd made that mistake. He knew he'd been distracted all day because he was horny, but he wasn't _that_ distracted, was he? He must have been; there simply wasn't another explanation.

He went through the door without a sound, this time ensuring that it was the right locker room, and let the heavy door close with a flat thud on the frame. He gave himself just enough time to make sure the room was empty before stripping off his robes in a flash, his cock hardening in keen expectation. He'd already needed to end his torment before Quidditch practice, but catching a glimpse of Potter in the shower was the last straw. He needed release, and now.

Wrapping a hand around himself, he started to move, the day's previous activities having already set the stage. Like this morning and so many other times before, he moved his hand up and down frantically, rubbing his thumb on the sensitive slit at the very top and smearing pre-come down the shaft. He went faster and faster until he was so close to orgasm that the idea of stopping was absurd. Just as he was about to come, he heard and saw the door open, and in walked Harry Potter.

'Malfoy, I – ' Harry started, but stopped as soon as he took in the sight before him. He turned bright red, but couldn't seem to avert his eyes.

Draco, to his own supreme mortification, couldn't stop himself and came with a whimper right in front of the Boy Who Lived. Thick ropes of pearly white come landed on the ground between them, Harry's eyes boring into Draco's the whole time. Neither of them seemed to be able to break their gaze, although neither had ever felt more exposed in their lives, especially Draco. After Draco had finished, Harry just stared, his mouth slightly agape.

'I'm sorry, Malfoy, I didn't mean to – ' Harry started, shifting awkwardly, but was interrupted by Draco.

'Just…please leave now,' Draco said, his voice small and face white.

Harry didn't know what else to do, so he took a few tentative steps back before he turned away and left the locker room without another word.

Draco gingerly donned his Quidditch robes and trekked out to the pitch, fighting back childlike tears the whole time.

Malfoys didn't cry.

**Author's Note:** Please review. :)


	3. Everything You're Not

**Author's Note:** Hello all! Once again, I would like to extend a heartfelt thank-you to all who reviewed and put my story on alert and whatnot! It means so very much to me, and I'm glad that I've captured and held your attention for now. I'd also like to offer a special note of gratitude to **Kurolli**. She knows why. As always, the marvellous JKR owns all situations and characters…but I let them have more fun. ;) Tea is always on me if either she or Alan Rickman could be persuaded.

_Chapter Three__: Everything You're Not_

Harry felt dreadful. Getting caught in the act was possibly the most embarrassing thing that could happen to anybody, and he could only imagine how much the mortification must be multiplied when the person who caught you was your sworn nemesis. It had been bad enough when Ron had caught Harry in the throes of solitary passion in his own bed last year. The experience was enough to make Harry avoid Ron for the rest of the day, and they were best friends. How much worse must Malfoy be feeling now?

Harry halted his train of thought. Was he actually feeling _sorry_ for the Slytherin git? That couldn't be. Then he realised that yes, he did feel sorry for him. But it wasn't a matter of Malfoy being a Slytherin. It was that Malfoy was just another boy, whom Harry had embarrassed. And Harry felt sorry.

He'd only meant to apologise to Draco for lashing out at him in the locker room. After he'd left, Peeves had pelted him with apple cores from the kitchen and cried with entirely too much mirth, 'Is ickle Potty embarrassed? Poor widdle Potty. Was Potty naked when the big bad Slytherin came in? Peevesy doesn't care, no he doesn't! Peevesy switched the signs!' and erupted into maniacal laughter. Harry had realised with a bit of a sinking feeling that it really wasn't Draco's fault. He'd only gone into what he had thought to be the Slytherin locker room. In retrospect, Harry realised, Draco was probably just as angry as Harry at the mix-up. Slytherins didn't like having their space invaded any more than Gryffindors did. So he'd only meant to explain what that pestilent Peeves had told him and hope that they could go back to their bantering rivalry, and the stupid incident in the showers could be forgotten.

One of Aunt Petunia's sayings inexplicably came to mind just then, and Harry snorted to himself as he thought, _The road to Hell is paved with good intentions_. But then suddenly his mind was back on Draco, and how he had looked while he was coming in the locker room. How even though shame – and fear? – had flashed across his face, he still looked to Harry oddly…_enticing_.

He pushed the thought out of his head almost as quickly as it had arrived. Malfoy was _not_ enticing. He was repulsive. Always with that sneer on his face, his lips curling in distaste. Those wonderful lips…they were probably velvety soft and squishy and downright _edible_. NO! Malfoy did not have wonderful lips, he couldn't! The only time the royal prat ever smiled a genuine smile was when he was gleaning a sick pleasure from tormenting Harry. A real smile, one that went all the way up to those alluring eyes…so grey that the gargantuan rocks at Stonehenge must have been furious with envy. Harry momentarily wondered how it would feel to have those eyes boring into his own while he came…the pair had already had the converse experience, after all. He wondered how it would feel to lace his fingers through Malfoy's angelic locks and hold on for dear life.

And then he mentally slapped himself, and scolded himself firmly. _Malfoy is not angelic. And he is not edible_, he added, just for good measure. _And he is not beautiful. And Stonehenge is not jealous. And he doesn't look brilliant when he comes._

All of a sudden, his stomach twisted with the horrified realisation (and was there another sensation, too?) that he was beginning to be more than slightly aroused.

_And I most certainly do _not_ have a hard-on for him._

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Draco felt thoroughly miserable. Were it anyone else interrupting him in his most furtive of moments, he could live with it. In fact, it was for that very reason that his Imperturbable Charms were so good – experience was always the best, if not the cruellest, teacher. His mother (he cringed at that particular memory) as well as his father had, at some time or another, both neglected to knock on his door at Malfoy Manor before entering his bedroom while he was 'busy'. Then, of course, he'd received quick tuition from his father on how to make sure he wasn't interrupted again (namely, how to use a good Locking Charm and Silencing Spell). But even with those two precautions, his parents still knocked from then on whenever the door was closed.

But _Harry Potter_?

It was bad enough that they were sworn enemies. It was worse that he'd been thinking of Potter while he masturbated. In retrospect, Draco realised (and he would have been amused by it were he not so upset), it was probably _because_ Harry'd come into the locker room that Draco had orgasmed just then. Fantasy was sufficient most of the time, but when all of a sudden the object of his suffocated desire appeared right in front of him then fantasy was ripped from his mind and thrown into reality. It was too much for both his body and his brain, he surmised, thoroughly unamused.

Draco was not easily fazed. Usually his confidence and reputation were enough to carry him through any sort of undesirable situation without incident. Normally, a simple look from Draco was enough to defend against any mockery or harassment. It was as though a sideways glance from him was akin to saying, "I _dare_ you." Perhaps it was simply the fact that Draco's status at the top of the ladder was intimidating, perhaps people simply weren't brave enough to risk losing the dubious honour of being his friend.

He could handle Quidditch muck-ups. He could deal with academic blunders. He could even bear the aftermath of being turned into a ferret. He would walk in to every class with his head held high, challenging anyone to provoke him. For the most part, it was a successful tactic. Only the sodding Golden Trio ever dared to defy him, and this scared Draco a little bit. There was something very different, something that struck much more deeply, and something that left him feeling much more vulnerable about what had just transpired, and while that was bad enough, anticipating Potter's inevitable – and likely public – mockery of him was worse.

It was just about the worst combination of circumstances that Draco could imagine. With a whispered, '_Scourgify_!' he cleaned himself up, then changed into his Quidditch robes before the rest of the team arrived. Maybe a good fly would help him take his mind off things, even if only for a few hours.

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As Harry returned back to Gryffindor Tower, he still couldn't shake the guilt that had clung to him since finding Malfoy in the change room. He tried to tell himself that it wasn't really his fault – nor was it Malfoy's – but a lifetime of bearing responsibility had led him into the habit of believing that everything was his fault.

In the dormitory, Harry found Ron lying on his bed reading _Quidditch Through the Ages_ and munching on a Chocolate Frog. He then noticed with a smile that Ron had left the card on Harry's bed.

'I knew you didn't have her,' Ron said with his mouth full, glancing over the top of his book. 'I've got one already.'

'Circe,' Harry commented. 'Thanks, Ron! I have been looking for her.'

'Why anyone would want a card of a witch who turned sailors into pigs…I'm not quite sure,' Ron admitted, still engrossed in his book.

'But you've just said you've got one,' Harry pointed out.

Ron blushed a bit and said, 'It's just because they're collectibles. It's not about Circe herself…it's about having the card.'

Harry just shook his head. 'That's a little mental, Ron,' he jested with a chuckle.

Shrugging, Ron did not deny Harry's comment.

Harry laid down on his bed and gazed at the woodwork above him, letting out an uneasy sigh.

'What's wrong?' Ron asked, finally disengaging himself from _Quidditch Through the Ages_.

'Nothing,' Harry lied, but Ron wouldn't have any of it.

'Rubbish. It's not your scar, is it?' he asked warily, not sure whether he wanted the answer to be 'yes' or 'no'. 'Yes' meant that Voldemort was up to something, which was a bad thing, but at least he would know that Harry was telling the truth. 'No' meant that Ron would have to push fairly hard to get an answer out of the normally guarded boy, which was not something Harry ever took too well.

'No, don't worry, it's not that,' Harry answered.

'What is it, then?' Ron prodded, fully expecting dismissal and possibly anger from the black-haired boy.

'Really, Ron, it's not important,' Harry tried in a last-ditch effort to get Ron to leave him alone.

'I'm your best friend, Harry. Please tell me.' To his utter surprise, Harry sat up and looked at him as though gauging whether this was something he could tell him. Finally, he spoke.

'I'm confused about something, that's all,' Harry admitted.

Ron put his book down and took the last bite of his Chocolate Frog. 'What is it?' he asked with his mouth full.

Not quite sure how to word it, Harry struggled a bit with what to say. 'It's just…if I were…have you ever…' Frustrated, he stopped talking.

'Bloody hell, mate, just spit it out.'

Harry mumbled something under his breath so quietly that Ron wouldn't have been able to hear it if he were three inches away from him, never mind fifteen feet.

'Can't hear you, mate.'

'I said, tifisgay?' he rushed out.

'One more time, in English.'

Harry took a very deep breath, and, staring at his hands in his lap, asked, 'What if I was gay?'

Ron did not answer for a moment. Thinking he was either angry or shocked, Harry looked up at him, and was unsure whether to be insulted or relieved when a huge smile spread across Ron's face.

With a laugh, he merely said, 'Nice one, Harry. That's funny. You had me going for a second,' and picked up his book once more.

Harry was a little put out. 'Ron, I'm serious.'

Ron looked back up at Harry and read his expression. When he realised that Harry was indeed serious, he leaned his head back a little more, with a pensive expression on his face, but still said nothing.

His silence unnerved Harry. 'Well?'

Ron tilted his head to one side and said, 'As long as you don't fancy Malfoy or any of my brothers, I don't give a flying fart.'

Harry chuckled a little nervously. 'Really? You're sure?'

Ron shrugged and said, 'You're my best mate, Harry. I liked you before. Why wouldn't I like you now? It'd be kind of like saying, "Ron, I have something to tell you – I have black hair," and expecting me to chuck you for that. Just because you actually said it doesn't make it any different. It's the way it always was. I don't care.'

Harry sighed with a bit of relief, then hastened to correct what he had said only a minute before. 'I mean, I don't know if I actually am gay…but I'm not sure,' he admitted, feeling his face growing hot as pink began to tinge his cheeks. Suddenly regretting the whole exchange, he completely changed his tone to one of nonchalance. 'Actually, I kind of doubt it. I mean, dreams don't mean anything, right?' He hadn't actually had a dream, but he reckoned that it offered a good excuse for Harry's bringing up of the subject.

Ron stared at him with a look of incredulity. 'You had a _dream_ about a bloke and all of a sudden you think you're gay? That's ridiculous! Yeah, of course dreams don't mean anything. You could have a dream about McGonagall for all I care and I'd still say it doesn't mean a thing.' He picked up a pillow and threw it at Harry. 'Don't worry.'

Harry chucked the pillow back at Ron and grinned. 'Thanks.'

'No problem.'

As he lay down, one more thought occurred to Harry. 'Ron?'

The redhead, who was apparently a proficient Legilimens, said, 'No, I won't tell anyone you asked.'

'Thanks.'

Relieved by the conversation though he was, Harry couldn't help but think of Ron's earlier statement and start to worry just a little bit.

'_As long as you don't fancy Malfoy or any of my brothers, I don't give a flying fart.'_

Well, at least Harry didn't fancy anyone named Weasley.

**Author's Note:** More M-rated content to follow in the next chapter. I love reviews more than Hermione loves the library. :)


	4. Gryffindor Morals

**Author's Note:** I really don't know who I was kidding when I said this fic would be about five chapters long. Realistically, I'm far too verbose for that to be a plausible achievement. I completely retract that statement, and I have a feeling it will be a little longer than that, but I'm not going to make an estimation this time because I'll just bollocks it up again. Of course, thank you as always for the reviews and story alert additions.

A disclaimer, just because I don't have two Knuts to rub together and therefore wouldn't like to be sued for the little bit I'm worth: Fabulously rich, famous, and powerful people and organisations own everything you recognise. I am not one of them. I just like to hold the characters hostage to do my dastardly bidding before returning them to the aforementioned rich, famous, and powerful people (namely JKR). But if those rich, famous, and powerful people (or Alan Rickman) were to, say, ask me to tea, who would I be to say no?

**Warning:** This chapter brings the story back up to the M-rating. Obviously, it's slash (homosexual content between two males), because that's just the only way to go. If you don't like that, then frankly I'm not sure how you ended up here. I mean, I warned you on many levels: rating, genre, and main characters. So if you don't like your tea with a little bit of lemon in it, then feel free to hit that Back button.

_Chapter Four: Gryffindor Morals_

It had been three days since what Draco had privately dubbed 'The Great Locker Room Fiasco', and he was beginning to believe that – astonishingly – the Gryffindor Wonder Boy was going to let the incident pass without comment. Potter had refused to meet his eyes for the first two of those days, but Draco deduced that this was likely because Potter was just as embarrassed as he was over the whole debacle. On the third day, they'd had Potions together again, and Snape – presumably to exact his revenge on James by directing his unrequited anger at Harry once more – had paired them together yet again. On that day, Potter had spoken to Draco. Neither felt completely at ease with the other just yet, but Draco took some comfort in the fact that Potter hadn't broadcast to everybody what had transpired earlier that week.

Draco was actually somewhat surprised by Potter's lack of maltreatment. Frankly, were the roles reversed, Draco would have wasted no time in making Potter's school life miserable. But that may have been the Slytherin in him, using any means necessary to ascend a few rungs on the social ladder while accomplishing the added task of pushing Potter clear _off_ the ladder. Though Draco either didn't know it or didn't dare admit it to himself, it would have also been an attempt to convince others – and himself – that he wasn't attracted to Potter.

But at the end of Potions class, Harry had slipped him a note and walked off without another word. When Draco opened the piece of parchment and read what was written there, he was more than a little bit shocked.

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Harry had tried and tried and tried to convince himself that what happened with Malfoy was nobody's fault (except Peeves'). But try as he might, his bloody hero complex made him want to apologise more tangibly to the Slytherin; make it up to him in some way. Exactly why he felt this way was beyond Harry. Normally anything to do with Malfoy didn't bother him at all.

Yet still he couldn't free himself from that desire.

Stupid Gryffindor morals.

And so Harry had concocted the most ludicrous scheme of any he had ever executed – and there were a fair few with which to compare, not the least of which was the Polyjuice Potion affair in second year. In fact, he had still not yet entirely processed his entire plan. Really, he only had a vague idea of how he was going to pull it off, and figured he would throw the details up in the air and catch them as they came tumbling down, with nothing more than a baited hope that his reflexes would be sufficiently quick.

It had worked before, after all.

In his untidy script he'd scrawled a note on a scrap of parchment torn from the end of his Potions essay, and practically chucked it at Malfoy, wordlessly, at the end of the class. He didn't wait around for a reaction because, truth be told, he wasn't sure what he wanted the reaction to be. Horror wouldn't be very agreeable. Nor would amusement. Even happiness would not be the most welcome, because it would push Harry to acknowledge certain feelings and thoughts that he'd rather deny and force away. Intrigue and consent would've been the preferable outcome, Harry presumed.

Harry thought back at the note he had given to Malfoy, wondering if it was worded quite the right way, and having a more than sneaking suspicion that it wasn't...but even worse, that it was worded perfectly.

_Malfoy,_

_I owe you. Meet me at the top of the Astronomy Tower at 11.30 tomorrow night. Come alone._

_HP_

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Harry arrived at the Tower at 11.18, which meant that he had seven hundred and twenty seconds to decide what he was going to do and say. Shrouded under the Invisibility Cloak as he was (he had to remember to crouch a little bit so the bottoms of his trainers didn't peek out), he knew he had a bit of an upper hand to Malfoy, as he would be able to observe the blonde before Harry had even registered on the other boy's senses.

Six hundred and twelve seconds.

Harry tucked away the faithful piece of parchment he knew as the Marauders' Map in the folds of his robes. Yet again, potential disaster had thrice been averted – twice with Filch and once with Snape. How Filch moved about the castle so swiftly was a mystery to Harry. The nincompoop may be a Squib by conventional definition, but he possessed magical facility heretofore unidentified, Harry surmised.

Four hundred and eighty-five seconds.

Malfoy should arrive at any moment now. Perhaps he'd even be early, Harry thought, and quickly snuffed the uninvited but undeniable flame of happiness that that thought ignited.

Two hundred and one seconds.

Ninety-nine seconds.

Thirty-four seconds.

Ten seconds.

_Where was Malfoy?_

Five.

Suddenly Harry heard shuffling behind him. He turned with anticipation (which he stubbornly refused to acknowledge) to find Malfoy tentatively entering the expanse of the Astronomy Tower, perfectly on time.

'Potter!' Malfoy spat, brandishing his wand, the tip of which glowed a faint red, like a warning (or was it a beacon?). 'Come out!'

Harry obliged, removing his Invisibility Cloak and stepping out in front of the Slytherin. 'Evening, Malfoy,' he said in what he desperately hoped was well-disguised as a nonchalant tone.

'Let's get right to it, then,' Malfoy said briskly. 'What do you want? Here to make fun of me again? Hope for a repeat performance? I have no idea what that pathetic excuse for a note was supposed to mean. Care to shed a little _light_ on the subject?' At his last sentence, Malfoy's wand – which he still had not lowered – glared brilliantly for a few seconds, making Harry see purple blotches (which faintly resembled what Harry believed a Boggart would look like in its natural form) when it suddenly faded back to a muted glow.

Time to ad-lib, Harry thought. This was the part where he threw the entire procedure straight into the air and just hoped the steps came down in the right order.

'Well, first I wanted to apologise for walking in on you when you were…when you were in the locker room,' Harry started nervously. 'I guess Peeves switch the signs or something as a prank and that's why you were in the Gryffindor one, and then I found out so I came to the Slytherin room to apologise and that's when I found you,' he rambled. He was fairly sure he was bollocksing the whole thing up very, very badly.

'When you found me _what_?' Malfoy spat. The whole experience had been downright humiliating for him; he figured he was at least going to make the sodding Gryffindor Golden Boy squirm a little.

'When I found you…' – there was a singularly uncomfortable pause – 'you _know_,' he stressed, desperately wanting to avoid the whole conversation and now beginning to wonder why he had thought this whole scenario up in the first place. _Oh yeah_, he reminded himself. _Gryffindor morals_.

'Say it,' Malfoy commanded.

'When I found you w-wanking,' Harry finished. He didn't really know why it was so difficult to say. It was hardly a secret that adolescent boys masturbated, but it still wasn't something one discussed often, even with others on the same side of the gender gap.

'"W-wanking"? Is p-poor P-P-Potter feeling n-nervous?' Malfoy taunted heartlessly.

'When I found you wanking,' Harry repeated with a much greater degree of confidence (though the confidence emanated from his voice box, not actually having originated from his gut). Not wanting to give Malfoy enough time to insert another merciless insult, he continued very quickly, 'I wanted to make it up to you.'

'How?'

'Well…' Harry trailed off. _Bugger. This was the part he really should have thought through _before_ coming to the Tower._ 'I thought maybe you could decide.' _WHAT?!_ his mind bellowed. _What the BLOODY HELL are you thinking?!_ If he were to argue with himself, he would have said, 'I don't know! I'm improvising!' but since Harry was hardly one to engage in animated conversation with himself, he just allowed the more rational part of him to scream at the impulsive, 'tally-ho!' part.

Malfoy's lip curled into an unmistakeable smile. 'You want _me_ to decide how you can make it up to me?' he jeered, looking as though Christmas and his birthday had joined hands and jumped right in front of him.

_No fear_, Harry told himself. 'Yes. What do you want me to do?' _This is a really, really, really bad idea. This is The Worst Idea Ever._

Malfoy now looked as though the Quidditch World Cup had squeezed its way in there with Christmas and his birthday, too.

'Well, you know what they say, Potter,' he spat. 'Turnabout is fair play.'

Harry's face went a shade of white that would make Nearly Headless Nick spectacularly envious. 'What do you mean?' he asked, voice trembling, knowing _exactly_ what Malfoy meant.

'You saw me wanking. Now it's your turn. I want a show,' he explained with a patronising sort of patience that would have infuriated Harry had he not been so nervous and frightened.

'You want me to…to _wank_? In front of _you_?' Harry asked incredulously, voice quiet.

'Merlin, Potter, too bad your brain's not as fast as your broom. You might actually pass a class for once. Come on, now. Trousers down.'

'I can't do that,' Harry whispered desperately.

Malfoy shrugged in mock indifference. 'Fine. I'll just go tell everybody that I caught you shagging the Weasel in a broom cupboard.' He turned to leave, then stopped to turn and feign a look of curiosity. 'Or was the Weasel shagging you?'

Suddenly Harry was very angry. 'Shut your mouth, Malfoy! Like anyone would believe you!'

'Wouldn't they? You're always together. Merlin knows the Weasel's enough of a girl. And you sure fight like you were shagging.'

Not willing to admit that Malfoy may have trumped him, but wanting more and more for this ordeal to be over with, Harry threw the Invisibility Cloak down to the ground with a good deal more force than was necessary. He seized his belt buckle and began to unfasten it. 'Fine, Malfoy. You want a show? I'll give you a show. Sit down,' Harry barked. He was slightly surprised when Malfoy obeyed. Malfoy, in turn, seemed genuinely astonished when he realised that Harry was seriously going to do what he'd been commanded to do, and his eyes widened.

Harry took a deep breath, closed his eyes and abandoned all shame. Trying to convince himself that this was all because of stupid, blasted, confounded, bloody Gryffindor morals and reminding himself that he was really the better person here, because there's no way in hell that Malfoy would ever do the same thing, he boldly tugged his trousers and boxers to mid-thigh. Grasping his cock, he stroked a few times until he was hard, and then did his best to pretend that he was in complete solitude. He tried to imagine a spray of water hitting his back – it was not part of the fantasy, but the only other times he had masturbated standing up had all been in a shower.

Harry started to stroke in rhythm, sliding the skin of his cock up and down in a most delectably taunting way. It was familiar; he knew exactly what he liked and he was going to do it. Rubbing a thumb over his glistening slit, he smeared pre-come all the way down the shaft and quickened his pace. Up, down. His breathing hitched. Up, down. It was like he was flying around a Quidditch pitch and ecstasy was too, chasing him with the goal of striking him with the force of a Bludger and sending him spiralling down in pleasure. He desperately wanted to play with his anus and insert a finger or two, but there was no way around it: he would _never_ do that in front of _anyone_. And he would spend the rest of his life with each wrist shackled to a Dementor before he did it in front of Malfoy.

Harry needed to come. Stopping was no longer an option. _Gryffindor morals._ It nearly killed him to do it, but he reached his other hand down to cup and rub his balls, trying covertly to put a little pressure on the nub of flesh behind them, and suddenly the look of Malfoy's face as he had come in the locker room four days ago was at the forefront of his mind. Harry stilled his hand for as long as he could, knowing that every second he could hold off meant he would come that much harder.

'Look at me,' Draco breathed from several yards away. Harry opened his eyes and suddenly forest and smoke met when Draco's grey eyes drilled into Harry's green ones.

It sent him over the edge. Desperate to make sure he didn't betray himself in a very ultimate and irrevocable way by crying out Malfoy's name, he bit his tongue so hard he drew blood and tasted copper. Hips bucking wildly, he rode out his orgasm, which seemed to him like it was lasting sensationally long, stroking quickly as he came forever, slowing only when his orgasm did. The white liquid was everywhere, he saw as he came back to earth and looked around him.

Harry needed to sit down before his unstable legs gave out altogether. Panting, he practically fell over as he flopped to the ground, but remained in a seated position. He looked at Malfoy with an expression displaying an indeterminate variety of emotions.

'Satisfied?' Harry asked, a little angrily, tucking himself back in and refastening his trousers and belt.

With a quick _Scourgify_ the evidence of Harry's exercise in Gryffindorian morality was gone. Malfoy could hardly speak, and suddenly Harry noticed why. The bulge underneath his robes was prominent. Seeing an opportunity to give Malfoy what he deserved – Harry tried unsuccessfully not to let the double meaning of that phrase cross his mind – Harry crawled toward the blonde and put his lips next to Malfoy's ear.

Malfoy inhaled very slowly and shakily, his eyes rolling back a little bit. Potter was much too close.

And then Harry reached down and laid a hand over Malfoy's groin and squeezed it gently. 'Something tells me you're not quite as satisfied' – _squeeze_ – 'as' – _squeeze_ – 'you'd' – _squeeze_ – 'like' – _squeeze_ – 'to' – _squeeze_ – 'be,' Harry whispered, his breath tickling the sensitive nerves on Malfoy's scalp and ear. And then he took his earlobe into his mouth and suckled very softly, finally giving it a tender nibble before he took his hand away from Malfoy's groin and backed away altogether.

Standing up, he gave one last look down at Malfoy and said, 'You got even, Malfoy. But now you need to get off.' He picked up his bundled Invisibility Cloak. With a flourish, he draped it around himself and disappeared into the night, leaving Draco Malfoy quaking on the Astronomy Tower floor, delirious with wanton desire.

**Author's Note:** I really was planning on posting this on Saturday, but I simply couldn't let pass the opportunity to post on JKR (and Harry's!) birthday. Happy birthday to both of them, and huge and heartfelt thank-you to JKR for helping Harry out of his cupboard.

This was my very first time writing any smut (and I'm not even sure it qualified as that), so reviews would be especially appreciated on this chapter. It's four o'clock in the morning here and absolutely pouring rain, so I'm off to go sit on the back deck with no umbrella, which is one of my favourite pastimes. :)


	5. Potion Commotion

**Author's Note:** As always, I would like to thank everybody who reviewed. The last chapter especially was difficult to write, because it was my first time ever writing that type of…er…subject matter. For that reason, I was elated to receive such kind comments from you all. You've no idea how much that means. :) Obviously, I don't own _Harry Potter_ or anything related to it (except my beloved poster hanging on my ceiling) – he and the entire Wizarding World are products of the imagination of the most wonderful JKR. I am eternally indebted to her for producing this Eden of the imagination in which we so happily frolic. And if she (or Alan Rickman) ever fancied having a cup of tea with me, I would be most willing to oblige.

Infinite thanks to my new beta, Maggie, known to most of you as Sp. Agt. 'SUNSHINE'. (Sorry, Maggie, I had to bastardise the stylisation of your name because FF thought it was a web address.) Without her help, this chapter would still be of the mediocre quality of the last four, both stylistically and content-wise.

Also, a brief note: In this chapter, I'm going to deviate from canon ever-so-slightly. See if you can spot the difference! ;)

_Chapter Five: Potion Commotion_

If Draco thought that Potions classes with Potter were bad before, he quickly realised that they were as easy as treacle tart with clotted cream. Both of the boys knew that Harry had come out on top in the Astronomy Tower, despite Draco's best efforts to _prevent _that very scenario.

In fact, Potter was being downright _infuriating_. He kept walking around like he _knew_ something that the others didn't. Of course Draco knew that this actually was the case, but he also couldn't help but be a little terrified that Potter just might spill the beans about the 'Great Astronomy Tower Escapade,' as Draco was now dubbing it. Every time the thought came into his head, though, Draco had to remind himself that Potter likely _wouldn't _do that simply for the necessity of securing his own self-preservation. Potter would have to admit that he'd tossed off – _willingly_, mind you – in front of his sworn enemy, and Draco was _sure _that the Gryffindor Golden Boy wouldn't have the (figurative) balls to debauch himself like that, even if it _did _inversely incriminate his rival.

…Well, Draco was _pretty _sure, anyway.

Harry, meanwhile, was torn between feeling smug and hopelessly embarrassed. Like Draco, he knew that he'd completely turned the tables on the blond and, in the end, had actually _won _that round. But the fact remained that he had _wanked off in front of the Slytherin Ice Prince himself_. For the most part, however, he'd realised that what was done, was done, and there was nothing he could do to change the past.

He settled instead for making Malfoy distinctly uncomfortable with the whole situation.

Potions provided an ideal venue for carrying out that goal. Harry hoped desperately that Snape would pair him with Malfoy again, if only because it would be that much easier to work with a close target than a distant one. Snape did not disappoint, once again matching the two of them together to work on the notoriously tricky potion of the day. When Harry heard the name of their assignment, he was elated. He may not be _Hermione_, but even _he_ knew the properties of Amortentia.

But as far as Snape's assignments went, this one was fairly easy. They had just over two hours to brew the potion and record how it smelled (which would differ from person to person, based on what attracted them); all that was fairly easy. Harry knew that Draco was much more skilled in Potions than he was, so he wasn't concerned that they would brew it improperly. What worried Harry was the second part of Snape's instructions: Sample the potion (which would cause an infatuation with their brewing partner), and then come get a dose of the antidote from Snape at his desk.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed that Harry was his partner yet again. As the two began to work in uneasy silence, dicing and grating and chopping and crushing, the cauldron began to fill with the necessary ingredients. Once all initial ingredients were in place and simmering, Harry began to stir.

'Three clockwise, two anti-clockwise, five clockwise, two anti-clockwise,' Draco instructed, reading straight from the textbook. Harry obeyed the instructions as they were read, all the while thinking up some way he could torment Draco during class; finally hitting upon one brilliant idea that was sure to please. Draco, meanwhile, added the Belladonna.

Harry withdrew the stirring stick, and, with an air of nonchalance, started to run his hand along the length of the handle, back and forth, in an unmistakable simulation of what had transpired in the Astronomy Tower not long ago. When Draco suddenly stiffened and drew in a sharp breath, Harry knew he had his attention. In a maddeningly casual manner, Harry increased his pace, all the while pretending to read over the next steps for the potion. Finally, when Draco could stand it no longer, he snatched the stick out of Harry's hands and almost threw it down on the desk in front of himself.

'Cut that _out!_' he snarled angrily.

Innocently, Harry replied, 'Cut what out?'

Draco, in response, gave Harry a knowing look and then returned his attention to the cauldron, pretending very hard that he didn't see Harry's smug smirk.

With ten minutes left in the class, Snape announced, 'Please record on a piece of parchment what your batch of Amortentia smells like to you. Do not presume yourselves such great actors as to lie; I want the whole truth, undistorted and untainted, and if I receive anything but that, the consequences will be harsh.'

Harry didn't doubt Snape for a moment. He inhaled deeply and was pleased to smell the woody scent of a new broomstick, the deliciously inviting aroma of a fresh slice of treacle tart, and… something else that he couldn't quite identify. It smelled faintly of Earl Grey tea, but was stronger… He _knew _that he had smelled it before, but wasn't quite sure where.

He wrote down his answers on the parchment. Hermione, not far to his right, was furiously scribbling down what he could see was a long list of component scents, the first of which he read to be _'fresh-mowed grass.' _Draco's list consisted of rain, polished silver, and tangerine.

'Please leave your parchment on my desk,' Snape instructed, 'and now everybody take a size three vial, fill it with your potion, and drink it. Everybody except Longbottom and Zabini, that is, who have apparently managed to create something more similar to what one might use to anaesthetise a fully-grown Hippogriff. Twenty points from Gryffindor for your perpetual incompetence, Longbottom.' Neville blushed furiously and tried to avoid exasperated glares from some of his Housemates. 'Make sure you look only at your partner while doing this; otherwise we'll have a veritable zoo on our hands.'

Harry dipped his crystal vial into the cauldron, filled it, and downed it in one gulp, keeping his eyes on Draco, who was mirroring his actions. Suddenly, Draco looked to Harry like he was positively edible. Harry couldn't believe he was really looking at something so beautiful. Draco, meanwhile, felt exactly the same way. Before you could say 'Quidditch' their hands were all over each other and their lips clashed, right in the very centre of the dungeon. They couldn't have cared less about who could see; in fact, Harry was pretty sure that if Voldemort himself were in the audience it wouldn't have stopped him. All that mattered was that he tasted _all_ of Draco, _right_ now.

Draco felt as though he would die if he couldn't hold the back of Harry's head and lace his fingers through his ebony hair as they snogged each other mad. Exactly _how_ Harry tasted wasn't really important, all Draco knew was that he wanted to nibble ever-so-gently on Harry's lower lip, making the other boy let out a highly embarrassing squeak of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Harry's hand travelled lower on Draco's back and pulled him closer, while Draco's death grip on Harry's hair tightened even more. They didn't notice everybody else getting up to receive the antidote from Snape, but that was because both were entirely enraptured by the other. The orientation of the stupid chairs was more than a little inhibiting, which frustrated both of them, but it didn't really matter because as long as their lips could touch, all was okay. Then suddenly Draco's lips left Harry's and assaulted his neck, sucking and licking and biting and somewhere in there Harry started moaning and gasping.

How long they were snogging, neither was really sure, but all of a sudden Harry felt his shoulder being wrenched back by an only slightly less-than-horrified Hermione, who cried, 'Professor Snape! We need antidote, and now!'

Harry, still wholly captivated by the glorious, angelic being in front of him (whom others knew as Draco Malfoy), was more than a little put out at Hermione's intrusion. In fact, were Blaise Zabini not holding Draco back as well, Harry wasn't sure he'd have been able to restrain himself from prying himself free of Hermione's grip and resuming the oh-so-delightful task of snogging Draco so hard that he didn't know right from left.

Snape rushed over with a small beaker of the antidote and administered two spoonfuls each to Draco and Harry. Almost instantly, both boys seemed to become acutely aware of what had just transpired. Their eyes grew wide in horror as two facts became painfully obvious: first, they had just snogged each other _silly_, and second, they had done so in _full view _of every Slytherin and Gryffindor taking Potions that year (not to mention Severus Snape).

Snape cleared his throat very loudly. 'Class dismissed. Mr. Malfoy, Potter…follow me.' He crooked a finger and turned swiftly on his heel, heading toward his private office, black robes billowing out behind him with a sort of sinister flair that only he could execute.

Draco and Harry exchanged glances that reflected a range of emotions, from embarrassment to apprehension, even ranging from anger to mild curiosity. But the worst part of the whole scenario was this: Harry had just figured out what he had smelled in the Amortentia. He was right, it was similar to Earl Grey tea.

It was the scent of Draco Malfoy's bergamot aftershave.

**Author's Note:** If you're at all interested in some Draco/Harry YouTube action, check out the video "In Which Draco and Harry Secretly Want to Make Out". It's very sweet and simple, and there's some great fanart to accompany it. :)

Review or I'll Imperius you into doing it. You'd save us all a lot of trouble if you just did it yourself, plus you would annoy me less. In turn, I would write the next chapter a lot faster.


	6. Enlightenment

**Author****'****s Note:** As always, many thanks to all of you who took the time to submit such encouraging reviews! I'm dreadfully sorry for the delay in updating – I'm afraid I left on holiday last week and have only just returned today! JKR is the creator of the characters and the original plot of everything _Harry Potter_-related, but that doesn't stop me from stealing them every once in a while to fulfil my sneaky whims and desires. If she could look past that little bit of thievery and skulduggery, however, I'd be thrilled to sit down with her for a nice cup of Earl Grey. Alan Rickman would, of course, also be invited.

I am immeasurably thankful to my wonderful beta, Sp. Agt. 'SUNSHINE', without whom this story would likely be Tom Riddled with errors, blunders, and sentences that seemed a lot shorter in my head.

_Chapter Six: Enlightenment_

Apprehensively, Draco and Harry followed Snape into his office, lined by shelves that were littered with bottles and cases of unknown liquids and questionable powders. A small tank of the green-and-brown snakes they had used a few classes prior sat on a shelf behind Snape's desk. Harry recognised Tanis and nodded his head to her in salutation when she hissed him a hello.

'Sit,' Snape commanded in a tone that indicated he was in an even more vicious temper than the one to which both boys were uneasily accustomed. They both obeyed wordlessly and swiftly, neither willing to test the menacing man before them, who wheeled around to face them both.

'Mr. Malfoy, would you be so kind as to tell me which one of you added the Belladonna to your Amortentia?'

'_I-I _did, sir,' Draco stuttered, mildly surprised that he could still find his voice. Snape, though he greatly favoured Slytherin House, was still rather terrifying when he wanted to be, even towards his own students. (This revelation was oddly satisfying to Harry.)

'And just _how much _did you add?'

'As much as the textbook said, Professor,' Draco answered, trepidation still tainting his normally cool voice. Snape arched one eyebrow and curled a corner of his lip slightly, indicating that he wanted to hear _exactly _'how much' that the textbook instructed.

Draco unconsciously licked his lips in the face Snape's expression. 'Twenty grams, sir.'

Snape's reaction was a mixture of disappointment, vindication, and a faint glimmer of amusement. Folding his arms over his chest, he turned to Harry. 'Mr. Potter, what specific instruction did I give to the class at the very beginning of the lesson?'

Harry, who hadn't been paying a mite of attention to the moment that now proved to be of critical importance for answering Snape's question, could not reply.

'I'm _waiting_, Potter.'

Suddenly Draco gasped. 'You told us to halvethe quantities, sir,' he voiced; a note of too-late recognition and mild frustration for not discovering his error sooner. 'It should have been _ten _grams, not twenty.'

'Correct you are, Mr. Malfoy, but I had asked _Potter, _here. Since he proved _incapable _of answering such an exceedingly simple question, I think ten points from Gryffindor are in order.'

Harry would have protested, if not for two reasons staring him in the face and suggesting against it. The first was that he knew it would be an exercise in futility: if nothing else, Snape may even deduct _more_ points. The second reason – and the one that gave him the most apprehension – was that his mind was still not entirely detached from replaying the sensation of Draco's lips on his own, nor the feel of when the blonde laced his fingers through Harry's hair, and so the reality of Snape's punishment was not of immediate concern to him.

'Explain to me, one of you, just how it is that the _both _of you failed to realise your severe error? Of course, for Potter it is no remarkable occurrence to brew a potion improperly, but you, Mr. Malfoy, should have been able to redeem his…_ineptitude_,' Snape sneered. 'Perhaps you were both so preoccupied with happy thoughts of Quidditch and Pygmy Puffs that you simply could not bear the mundane tedium of Potions class? Or were you each so enraptured with the other that your attentions were utterly incapable of remaining anywhere but with thoughts involving the two of you shagging like a pair of fauns?' he accused with an unbearable level of sarcasm.

Draco couldn't help but feel ashamed and wonder if the Potions professor knew just how close he was to the truth (on Draco's part, at least), but Harry did a much better job of acting incensed.

Flying to his feet, he said very boldly, 'I would shag _Voldemort_ before I shagged Malfoy, Professor Snape, and we all know how likely _that_ is to happen!'

Outraged, Snape bellowed, '_DON__'__T SAY HIS NAME!_'

Were Harry thinking a little straighter-- well, not _straight_, really, but clearer (rather than having only half his mind wired to the present moment with the other half happily engaged in blissful full-color replays of snogging Malfoy) --he would not have done what he did next. Just as loudly as Snape, he cried, 'VOLDEMORT! Voldemort, _Voldemort_, _VOLDEMORT!_' with a look of unadulterated defiance staining his face.

'_FIFTY_ points from Gryffindor!' Snape roared, and Harry suddenly fell very quiet. 'Sit _down_, Potter,' he spat. Harry obeyed. Snape closed his eyes and took four seconds to collect himself, folding his arms over his chest as he did so. 'The reason that I called the two of you in here is more pressing than your eternal incapacity to pay attention in class, Potter.' he drawled. 'You _see_, a most curious phenomenon takes place when an error such as Mr. Malfoy's is made. Belladonna is added to Amortentia _why_, Mr. Potter?' he questioned.

Devoutly thankful that he actually knew this answer, thanks to Hermione's relentless attempts to teach Ron, Harry responded with, 'It's an inhibitor, Professor.'

'Correct. And why does Amortentia require an inhibitor, Mr. Malfoy?' Snape continued, his annoyingly patronizing tone still mocking them both.

Malfoy, who had clearly put the pieces of the puzzle together much faster than Harry had and evidently knew just where Snape was taking this line of questioning, answered quietly. 'Because without Belladonna, Amortentia is dangerously volatile. It becomes incurable, even with an antidote, and drives the consumer to an almost insatiable infatuation. If the object of his or her infatuation does not return his or her affections, the consumer can be driven into a depression so severe that he or she decides to commit suicide, often taking the loved one with them.' (Harry privately marvelled at how similarly Hermione would have answered the same inquiry.)

'Correct,' the Potions Master verified. 'That's what happens _without_ Belladonna. But in yourcase, the potion contained _too much_. Do either of you care to hazard a guess as to what that does?' he asked. Both boys were silent, but honestly not knowing the answer.

Snape carried on. 'It has two possible outcomes. The firstis that the potion is rendered ineffective. You might as well be drinking pumpkin juice for all the magical ability it possesses. Obviously, with that inspiring exhibit of tongue choreography we were all _so _fortunateto have witnessed, that less-entertaining outcome was not the case.'

Harry blushed. 'What's the second possible result, Professor Snape?'

Snape eyed him knowingly. 'The potion is only effective on two people who already share a mutual attraction between each other.' He had to work to keep the smile of triumph off his face as he watched the information gradually sink into them both.

Harry, it would seem, was looked as if he were starting to panic. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped, and he started to sputter in what Snape could only assume would be indignant protest. Draco, on the other hand, and just enough so that made Snape's brow furrow; seemed almost _relieved_ with the explanation.

Snape sat down in the chair behind his desk, a note of finality in the action. 'That is all,' he stated. 'The two of you are dismissed.' He picked up the stack of parchment Harry and his class had filled out that detailed the smell of Amortentia, and began to read through them.

Draco hurried out as quickly as he could, but Harry was still a little bit dumbfounded by the revelation and didn't budge immediately. With a look of mild surprise, he slowly got up from the chair and nearly stumbled his way out of Snape's office. He had one foot out the door when the professor spoke up once more.

'I suggest that you figure out exactly who you are and what you want before you do or do _not _do anything with Mr. Malfoy,' Snape said, never once looking up from the essays.

Harry blinked. 'Sir?'

'Think about what a relationship with him would mean, and think about what _not _having one would mean,' the professor answered, peering up at Harry from just beneath his brows, a strange expression on his face that Harry would have never expected. By Merlin, but Snape was actually trying to _help_ him.

This was just all too confusing.

'…Yes, sir,' Harry replied, still overwhelmed by the novelty of it all, and turned to leave.

'And, Potter?' Harry turned to face Snape, whose gaze had returned to the parchment in his hands. 'Don't hurt him. You may have noticed that I have a bit of a soft spot for Mr. Malfoy, and I do not suffer gladly those who would attempt to harm him.'

'Y-yes, sir,' Harry croaked, turning to rush out of Snape's office and back to the Gryffindor common room.

HDHDHDHDHDHDHD

When he entered through the portrait-hole into the scarlet-adorned common room, Harry found Hermione and Ron both sitting on the couch by the fire. Hermione was reading (as usual), and Ron was finishing a Transfiguration essay; which, of course, meant that he had been pestering Hermione every four minutes for instruction on what to write. Hermione glanced up at Harry and smiled a tiny, almost mischievous smile that Harry had come to know meant that she had figured something out, long before the rest of them caught on. She pretended to return her gaze to her book while peering surreptitiously between Harry and Ron, looking entirely too pleased with herself for Harry's liking.

Ron, on the other hand, did not react so favourably. When he saw that it was Harry who had entered a moment earlier, he shot him a scathing look and returned to his essay, ignoring Harry entirely.

Harry really wasn't in the mood for Ron's opposition. It was embarrassing enough that he and the Malfoy heir had gone on a mad snogging frenzy in the middle of their Potions class; it was downright disconcerting that Snape had now revealed that the two boys _must_ have fancied each other or the potion wouldn't have had any effect other than drinking a glass of water would have. And worse still, Snape knew with concrete evidence that the members of the most infamous rivalry in Hogwarts history (since Salazar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor themselves) couldn't stop thinking about each other. Were it anyone else to reveal this information to Harry and Draco, Harry might not have felt so terrible about it, but the fact that it was _Snape_, whose loathing of Harry was far from secret, was Bubotuber pus icing on a dragon dung cake. Harry almost couldn't bear Snape having intimate knowledge of him that had not even been shared with his closest friends.

Fortunately, Ron seemed no more eager to row about it with Harry than Harry did. Harry, sighing, gave Hermione a look that plainly said_, __'__We__'__ll talk later,__'_and set off in the direction of the boys' dormitory to collect his Quidditch gear for practice later that evening.

There was, of course, a silver lining to the whole scenario: Draco _obviously _fancied Harry back.

Harry rolled this knowledge around in his head for the hundredth time since leaving Snape's office. The sheen of surprised novelty wrapping it had begun to fade, and left behind a simple intriguing reality.

He could not help but smile.

**Author****'****s Note:** Review or I'll tell Mad-Eye Moody that you booby-trapped his office. I'm sure the consequences would be entertaining for me. Of course, they'd be either painful or deadly for you…_then_ you'll wish you'd reviewed. Easier just to get it out of the way now. ;)


	7. Talk

**Author****'****s Note:** Infinite thank-yous to everybody who reviewed or added me or this story to their favourites or alerts! I'm sorry this instalment took longer than my previous ones, but I've been very busy with preparing to move back to school and whatnot! Rest assured, however, that I will not abandon this story. I don't own _Harry Potter_, and I can prove it because if I did, you'd be holding this fic in your hands in the form of a book, and Harry/Draco would be canon. However, there is, as always, a standing invitation to both JKR and Alan Rickman for tea.

A Hagrid-sized thank you to my beta, Sp. Agt. 'SUNSHINE', whose help, insight, and support has made this fic that much more readable and writeable.

_Chapter Seven: Talk_

Harry Potter was accustomed to stares. Since finding out that he was one of the most famous people in wizarding history, he'd gotten unsettlingly used to seeing photos of himself on the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ and hearing his name whispered whenever he walked past a group of four or more students. He'd been involved in a great number of disasters that had led to being scrutinised by anyone with a pair of eyes, and he was no stranger to rumours and gossip. With that said, however, virtually all of the hearsay that revolved around Harry involved Voldemort or Dementors or strange abilities that Harry hadn't even known he had, so a shift in topic to the latest – and hottest, any girl would be the first to tell you – snogfest at Hogwarts was something to which Harry was rather unsure of how to react. He decided to deal with it the same way he ever handled the aftermath of Dark Magic-related drama: Ignore it and challenge anyone who called him on it.

Yet another difference this time, however, was that normally he had Ron and Hermione to help him fend off accusations and confrontations. Ron had disappeared and avoided Harry altogether, and on the occasions where proximity between the two could not be prevented, he said nothing and did not make eye contact, preferring to fume silently and stare at anyone or anything that was _not_ Harry. Hermione had been torn between the two, trying to act as mediator while maintaining a friendship with each. For about half an hour, she had relayed messages from one to the other, but had quickly removed herself from that position when it became very apparent that they needed to talk. Hermione, caught between Harry and Ron, could not very well defend Harry to the public without compromising her precarious standing with Ron, and so resorted to letting Harry fend for himself in public but maintaining a close bond with him when they were in private.

All this meant that Harry was absolutely by himself, at the dubious mercy of his fellow students. It wasn't so bad at first, but now whispers that had started off quietly now grew in volume, and it did not take long until one could hardly walk between two tables in the Great Hall without hearing the words _'__Harry,__'__ '__snogging,__'__ '__Potions,__'__ '__gay,__'_ or _'__Draco.__'_ Harry was starting to become annoyed with it, but was thankful that the furtive conversations remained just that, and that no outright confrontations had taken place just yet.

Unlike Harry, who was acclimatised to hearing gossip about himself, Draco Malfoy had absolutely no idea as how to handle the feel of staring eyes, pointed fingers, or covered mouths. He tried to keep his head down as he moved through the corridors, hoping that it would help to diffuse the focus to other, more neutral points, but of course this proved an exercise in futility. His attempts at nonchalance only served to draw him even more attention. Though Harry had been lucky enough to avoid challenge thus far, there had been several attempts to get a rise out of Draco.

The first had been bearable: an overconfident (or over-stupid) second-year Ravenclaw had had the audacity to whistle to the tune of _A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love_ as Draco walked by. Draco reacted in what he thought was an appropriate and proportional way: he hexed her arms off. (Of course, Madam Pomfrey was more than capable of remedying the situation, and thank goodness for that because the poor girl was in shambles – literally and figuratively.)

That particular incident held gossip at bay for all of ten minutes. Then a seventh-year Hufflepuff thought it would be funny to ask Draco which classroom he and Harry would christen next, and mentioned that it had probably been decades since Trelawney's classroom had seen so much as a couple holding hands for reasons other than Divination. Draco responded by turning the poor boy into a murder of crows. (Rounding them all up to cure him was a little difficult, and for a while it seemed as though he would forever be missing his two big toes, but a few days later, Justin Finch-Fletchley found one in Greenhouse Two, and Ginny managed to capture one on the Quidditch pitch.)

After that episode, it seemed that the students learned very quickly that Draco was not to be tested. The Slytherins had not turned on their Prince (not out of loyalty, mind you, but rather because they recognised that there was nothing to be gained from doing so), and the Gryffindors had left Draco well enough alone because they knew that their hero was implicated as well.

Eventually, Hermione found time to steal away from Ron and her studies and snatched Harry up one afternoon to instigate a private chat in the Room of Requirement. Practically flinging him, sputtering, into one of the comfortable armchairs so courteously provided by the Room, Hermione seated herself in a seat directly opposite him, eliminating any chance of escape.

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her legs, hands clasped under her chin, a pose which gave her an air of serious candour. 'Tell me what Snape said to you,' she demanded outright, though not unkindly, 'after Potions the other day.'

'…After the Malfoy thing?' Harry questioned. Hermione nodded.

The Boy-Who-Lived blew out a full-cheeked sigh. 'Well,' he began, 'first he started asking us what we did to the potion, and we told him what went wrong, and – '

'What _did_ go wrong?' Hermione interrupted.

'We added too much Belladonna,' Harry replied, and Hermione's eyes instantly widened and her hand flew to cover her mouth in glee. By her reaction, Harry knew that she had instantly filled in the blanks and knew exactly what was going on between Harry and Draco.

'You _didn__'t_!' she exclaimed, voice sounding both scandalised and delighted. Harry nodded miserably, staring sheepishly at the hands lying idle in his lap. 'Well, that's _wonderful_!' Hermione declared. 'He likes you back!'

'Wait, what?' Confused, Harry looked up at her. 'Hermione, what do you mean, "that's wonderful"? It's the worst bloody thing in the world! His father's a _Death Eater_, for Merlin's sake, and if Malfoy's not one already then he will be soon, not to mention that he _hates_ you and Ron!'

Hermione chuckled tiredly. 'Harry, when will you stop seeing the Wizarding World through _Ron__'__s _eyes?'

The bespectacled wizard furrowed his eyebrows and shot his friend a questioning look. '…What do you mean?'

'Ever since the first day on the train, everything you've learned or heard or done involving the Wizarding World has been with Ron. It's because of _him _that you believe pure-blood elitism is wrong. It was _through him _that you learned about Quidditch and Chocolate Frogs. Ron taught you how to play chess, and it was _Wizard__'__s _Chess, at that. Almost everything you've done since you turned eleven has been linked to Ron somehow.'

'But what does that have to do with anything?' Harry asked, a subtly desperate, petulant whine pulling on his voice.

'Just think,' Hermione ordered patiently. 'When you and Malfoy talked on the Hogwarts Express at the beginning of our first year, you had only just befriended Ron, and aside from Hagrid, Ron had been your only real contact with the Wizarding World. So when Malfoy insulted Ron and his family, you rejected Malfoy's hand of friendship out of newfound loyalty for Ron. Now, if I'm not mistaken, what could have been a friendship and maybe eventually even love' – Harry immediately cringed – 'instead developed from that negative point onward as a rivalry,' Hermione explained. 'If you ask me, it only makes sense that it's _him_ you fancy. Next to Voldemort, there's no one you obsess over more than Malfoy,' she finished casually.

'That still doesn't change the fact that he _hates _the two of you,' Harry countered again. 'And I don't want anything to do with him if all he's going to do is sit around and call you "That Mudblood" and Ron "the Weasel".'

'Of course, and by knowing you, I expect nothing different. But, honestly, Harry – when are you going to get it through your thick head that Ron and I can take care of ourselves? When are you going to let _yourself _be happy for a change?'

Maybe it was Hermione's tone or the words themselves, but Harry paused for a moment, before he shrugged bashfully; knowing but unwilling to admit that she may be a little bit right. Still not ready to give up on the Malfoy issue, however, he persisted stubbornly with 'Even with all that aside, Hermione, the fact remains that he's got Death Eater ties.'

Hermione pursed her lips a little bit and leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. 'That's true. And far be it from _me _to make excuses for him, but I think that's something only he could talk about with you. Nobody can really know the truth except for Malfoy himself.'

'But what if he _is_ a Death Eater already, and he's just acting like he likes me because he wants to get close to me and then hand me over to Voldemort?' Harry pressed, sounding a bit like he was just grasping wildly on the idea to avoid looking at the truth that was staring him in the face.

Hermione cracked a wry half-grin. 'Judging by the way that he was all-out _snogging _you the other day' – Harry blushed – 'he's either a very, very, _very_ good actor, or he wasn't acting at all. And, even so…you're at Hogwarts. He's not very well going to try to kidnap you right out from under our noses, now, is he? Even _he_ isn't thick enough to think that Ron or I wouldn't care to notice, and we're talking about a boy who was senseless enough to insult a Hippogriff.'

Harry sighed and listened to her words again in his head for a moment, realizing that she was probably right – but then he corrected himself. _Of course_ she was right. This was _Hermione_ he was talking with, for Merlin's sake. Had she _ever _truly been wrong before?

'But there _is_ just one more little thing that I was curious about…' Hermione continued, trailing off in uncertainty.

Harry cocked an eyebrow. 'Yes?'

The witch's forehead furrowed a little bit and she groped through her next words. 'I didn't know that you…since when…just _how long _have you…'

'Just spit it out, Hermione,' Harry teased. 'I'm not going to bite you.'

'Have you always preferred blokes?'

Harry answered with a hollow laugh. 'Well… _honestly_, I'm not even sure I do.' Hermione raised an eyebrow sceptically. Seeing her expression, Harry added, 'It's pretty new to me. I don't… quite know what _to _think of it, to tell the truth.'

Hermione nodded, satisfied with his answer but still rolling it around in her head. 'When did you start wondering?' she questioned with nothing but sincere interest.

'I don't really know… Within the last few months, I suppose.' He was distinctly uncomfortable with this conversation, and unconsciously shifted in his seat.

Sensing that he wanted a change of subject, Hermione said, 'Well, all I can say is that you should talk to him. Don't hex him and don't snog him and don't apologise to him. Just talk. Actions would only confuse the situation, and what I think you both need right now are just some solid words.'

'But what should I do about Ron?'

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'Let _me _worry about Ron, Harry. He'll come around, he always does. Remember the Triwizard Tournament?' Harry nodded. 'He's still your best mate, even after all that. Don't think he'll throw it away over this.'

'But, Hermione, I asked him a few days ago what he would think if I were gay, and he said it was fine as long as I didn't fancy any of his brothers or… or Malfoy. And, well, I guess that I didn't hold up that end of the bargain.'

Hermione made a vague sound as she thought. 'Hmm… Well, that _does _complicate things a bit, but like I said: let _me _worry about him. You just worry about talking to Malfoy.'

'Okay, I will soon, I guess. Hey, did you see what he did to that Hufflepuff?'

HDHDHDHDHDHDHD

While Harry and Draco had, for the most part, succeeded in fending off the rest of the school, the relationship between the two of them was tenuous at best. They had been avoiding each other to an unprecedented degree, acting almost as if just the merest interaction between them would transmit to the other some ungodly plague. It was so bad that, if Harry and Draco were walking down the same corridor from opposite ends, one immediately would duck off to the side and take an alternate route to his destination rather than risk making eye contact with his rival-turned-crush. Harry really _did_ want to talk to Draco, like Hermione had suggested, but was a little afraid – well, okay, he was _a lot _afraid – and also had no clue as to what he would say. Plus, nowadays it was downright _impossible _to get Draco alone, even just to say, 'Meet me in the Astronomy Tower later' – never mind trying to instigate actual conversation.

The avoidance tactic worked for Draco until one night found both of them in the library, not four tables apart from each other. Harry had come in with Hermione to complete a Charms essay set by Professor Flitwick, and Draco had been cavorting with Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. The library had been littered with people, each table dotted with students completing assignments before the weekend came and flipping through books furiously in a way that would have made Hermione beam with pride.

Eventually, though, Hermione had completed her essay but Harry, who had been thoroughly distracted by the presence of a certain Slytherin just a stone's throw away, had only four inches written down so far. Hermione had looked at him pointedly as if to say (or scream, as Harry was sure she would have, had her words been vocalised), _'__Talk to him. Figure it out,__'_and then closed her book with a loud _thwack_, a good-sized puff of dust shooting sideways from between the musty pages. She then got up, and with a quick 'I'll see you in the common room later,' turned on her heel. She held the humongous volume up to the shelf where it belonged (it floated upwards), and left the library with only her quill and roll of parchment in hand, bushy curls bouncing against her back in time to the padding of her shoes on the floor.

As the sun floated beneath the horizon and the library gradually emptied (save for Madam Pince and the most desperate or dedicated of students), Harry couldn't help but fidget nervously as he realised that Hermione was right (as usual.) Normally, he would have given anything to have Draco out of his way indefinitely, but this was just _ludicrous_. As anxious as he was over the thought of a confrontation, he knew that it had to happen. And given the relative privacy of the library, now was as good a time as any and probably better than most. Blaise and Pansy had left long ago, leaving Draco in solitude at the table, where he was just putting the finishing touches on a Defense Against the Dark Arts assignment.

Harry screwed up his courage, picked up his quill, parchment, and books, and marched over to the table where Draco sat. He seated himself directly across from the blond boy as if it were something he did every day.

Draco glared at him. 'What do _you_ want, Potter?' he sneered, and Harry reminded himself that he was in Gryffindor for a reason. He took a breath.

'I want to talk to you.'

**Author****'****s Note:** And now, because you are all wonderful, faithful, supportive readers, here's a little joke I made up the other day, thanks to a typo: _VoldeMart - A homely little shop to furnish your desires of world domination and evil._

Reviews are food for the inner Dudley.


	8. Two Important Conversations

**Author's Note:** Thank you, as always, for the lovely feedback. It really makes my day so much more than you may realise, and for that I will always be deeply thankful to those who take the time to review, favourite, or subscribe. With that said, my sincerest apologies for the delay in writing and posting this chapter. I just returned to university and this term has been nothing but busy for me! I've been averaging three hours of sleep a night and so writing has, regrettably, fallen by the wayside to some degree. But I promise this fic will not be abandoned! Also, this chapter is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are my own.

I fully disclaim all things _Harry Potter_ (though, if you don't mind, I think I'll hang onto the poster hanging on my bedroom ceiling), as JKR owns all publishing rights. I am, however, eternally indebted to her for creating such a delightful and bountiful meadow of literary potential, and would be more than willing to have her over for tea sometime. Alan Rickman, the brilliant actor he is, is also more than welcome to join us, though I must confess that I might tackle him out of happiness.

_Chapter Eight: Two Important Conversations_

Harry screwed up his courage, picked up his quill, parchment, and books, and marched over to the table where Draco sat. He seated himself directly across from the blond boy as if it were something he did every day.

'What do _you_ want, Potter?' he sneered, and Harry reminded himself that he was in Gryffindor for a reason.

'I want to talk to you.'

Draco's lip curled in what was either amusement or disgust (Harry couldn't be sure). 'Brilliant. How heart-warmingly Hufflepuff of you, Potter.' Sarcasm oozed from every word.

'Shut it, Malfoy. I'm serious here. Have you given any thought to what Snape said? About the…the mutual attraction thing?' Harry wasn't quite sure how to word it.

'No,' replied Draco instantly. He had, in truth, thought of almost nothing else since then, but wasn't going to hand it over to Potter that easily.

Harry looked a little crestfallen, but then remembered something he was sure would trump Malfoy's denial. 'Really? Because I could have sworn the other day that you seemed a little happy about it. Relieved, even.'

'Right. Because I'm desperately in love with you and was _thrilled_ to find out that you fancied me back,' scoffed Draco, but he did a poor job of disguising the fact that this statement was not far off from the truth.

'You know what, Malfoy? I think you are.'

Draco froze. 'Am not,' he retorted lamely after a pause that was entirely too long.

'Yes, you are. I'm certain of it. _Nobody_ is a good enough actor to pull off what you did in Potions a few days ago. Plus, look at how you've been treating people who tease you about it. You've put more people in the Hospital Wing in the last two days than all the rest of this year's Quidditch matches combined! Could it be that they're striking a nerve, ickle Draco?' Harry taunted. He should have seen what was coming.

In a flash, Draco's wand was pointed squarely at Harry's throat, and Draco was snarling viciously. It was, however, evident to Harry after only a few seconds that Draco wasn't actually going to do anything and had brandished his wand only to save face. The anger was visible in his snarl but was absent from his eyes.

Harry, having not even attempted to draw his own wand, decided to call Draco's bluff. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, exposing his neck even further, and said, 'If you're going to hex me, you might as well do it now.'

Just as he'd predicted, Draco did nothing. He could feel the wand began to tremble and finally heard it clatter to the desk, and opened his eyes. Mentally preparing himself, Harry spoke. 'Listen, Malfoy, I'm going to lay myself bare here. Merlin knows why, but I like you. I'm not even sure when it started. Probably within the last month, to be honest, and for a while I wasn't even sure it was _you_ I liked or just the idea of you…or any bloke, really. But after the whole thing in the changing rooms and the Astronomy Tower and then just the other day in Potions…I don't know. When you kissed me, or I kissed you – I'm not really sure how it went, but I know there was a lot of lip mashing involved – I liked it more than I ever thought I would like kissing anyone.'

Draco interrupted, 'Wait, that was your _first kiss_?'

Harry nodded bashfully. 'Why?'

_Because you're a really, really, _really_ good kisser_, thought Draco, _and you're not supposed to be that amazing on your first go_. 'I don't know. Just thought the Gryffindor Golden Boy would have gotten at least a little action by now.'

Chuckling nervously, Harry responded, 'You'd think so, wouldn't you? But fighting evil overlords doesn't leave much time for snogging, unfortunately. But back to what I was saying.' (He wasn't going to lose courage now. He had to finish before he got frightened.) 'Anyway, I really liked it and I don't know if it was just because of the potion or what, but I'm kind of curious to find out. I don't know why I like you, but I do, and I think you like me back. I know there are a hundred reasons why we should stay fifty yards away from each other, but quite frankly, I don't want to.' There, he had said it. Now it was all up to Draco.

Draco looked very thoughtful, weighing carefully what Harry had said. After what seemed like a whole year to Harry, Draco pointed out, 'My father's a Death Eater.'

'I know.'

'And I'm supposed to become one too.'

'I know.'

'And I _really_ don't like your friends, and I know you don't like mine either.'

'I know.'

'Plus you were raised by Muggles.'

'Bother you?' Harry raised an eyebrow. Draco was obviously grasping at straws, trying to invent reasons for them to avoid each other.

'Not as much as I thought it would, to tell the truth. You're powerful enough, for certain, and you seem to have a fair grasp of our ways,' Draco ceded. In a last-ditch effort, he added, 'But I'm a boy.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'Believe me, I know.'

'And that doesn't bother you? I always thought you liked girls.'

His statement made Harry instantly uncomfortable (why was Draco so good at doing that?) and he squirmed in his chair a little. 'I thought so too, for a really long time. But I think this realisation has always been inevitable, and even though I don't think I'm anywhere _near_ ready to tell anyone, I feel like I'm coming to terms with it a little bit. I'm still uncomfortable. I'm still clueless. I'm still freaking out a little bit, to be honest, but all of a sudden it just kind of makes sense.'

'Fine. Well, look, I'll level with you here. I'm attracted to you, yes, although I can't imagine why. And while every part of me is screaming that this is the worst idea in the world, I can't deny that I want to give it a go.' Draco stopped, knowing that he should say something more but not sure what it should be.

Harry couldn't help a smile stealing across his face. 'Well, I want to give it a go too.'

HDHDHDHDHDHDHD

Hermione found Ron grouchily poring over his own Charms essay before the fireplace in the common room. Over the last few days, he'd been sour at the best of times and downright unbearable at the worst, and Hermione was more than a little bit tired of it. It was time for him to buck up and be himself again.

With a loud noise and a little more force than might have been necessary, Hermione set down her books and parchment on the couch cushion beside Ron, and gave him a pointed stare, folding her arms over her chest.

It took Ron a moment to register what was happening, but soon he looked up with his mouth full of Chocolate Frog and said, 'What?'

'Why won't you talk to Harry?' Hermione demanded, getting straight to the point.

'Because he's after that lunatic Malfoy!' Ron cried, gesturing at an empty space in the room as though the offender were standing right there. He sounded as though he couldn't believe that Hermione was asking him a question with such a blatantly obvious answer.

'So?'

'_SO?!_ We hate him! He hates us! Not to mention that it's like a Pygmy Puff falling in love with a Hippogriff…just…_unnatural_,' Ron continued.

'So who's the Pygmy Puff in this scenario?'

'Obviously it's Harry,' Ron answered. When Hermione looked puzzled, he explained, 'It'll be all cute and wonderful for a little while, and then all of a sudden the Hippogriff will decide he's really hungry, and then it's nothing but bad news for the Pygmy Puff.'

'Or maybe the Hippogriff and the Pygmy Puff live happily ever after and have little Hippopuff babies –'

'Wait, how would that even happen?' Ron interjected.

Hermione ignored him and continued, '– and nobody ever gets eaten.'

'Still doesn't change the fact that Malfoy and Harry hate each other,' Ron grumbled, unwilling to cede to Hermione.

'Obviously they don't,' Hermione said. 'People who hate each other don't mash faces together in public.'

Ron groaned, 'Oh, _please_ don't remind me of that. I've been begging Ginny to Obliviate me ever since, but she won't do it.'

'It's a good thing, too,' Hermione scolded. 'Otherwise there'd be even less in that pitifully empty brain of yours.' Ron scowled at this. 'Look,' Hermione said. 'We're Harry's best friends. The least we can do is give him a chance at this and be there for him, for better or for worse. If it works out for him and Draco, then we need to be happy for him, and if it doesn't, then we need to be there for him. You don't have to like it, but you're his friend and you know he would do the same for you.'

Ron sat in silence for several moments. Finally, he sighed resignedly and begrudgingly said, 'Fine. But I still don't like it.'

'That's alright,' said Hermione, 'but maybe you will eventually.'

**Author's Note:** Review please! Hopefully the next chapter will actually be up within a reasonable amount of time.


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